


Valar Dohaeris

by dreadwulf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, TV continuity, season 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadwulf/pseuds/dreadwulf
Summary: The Sept of Baelor is in ruins, King Tommen is dead, and Queen Cersei holds the Iron Throne. Jaime Lannister is trapped in King's Landing, bound by love and duty. Brienne of Tarth serves the Starks at Winterfell, but love and duty will bring her South. The day of reckoning is coming faster than anyone here realizes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to Nurdles for being a terrific beta reader and making my words better.

When the day breaks over the city, it casts a golden warmth across the rooftops; a line of liquid gold rising over the far peak of the skyline that melts gradually through each district in turn until it laps the shores of the Red Keep. Movement and noise will soon follow, but for now King’s Landing holds its breath and shimmers quietly in the morning light.

The only wrong note in the silhouette of the city is the malignant void where the Sept of Baelor once stood. From this distance you could neatly trace the remembered outline of it with your finger, just _there_ , where now there was only sun and sky, as though wiping at a window to clear a blemish that would make the Sept visible again. But the window is open, and no amount of wiping will clear this stain away.

The explosion of the Sept would have been visible from this window. As people around the city told it, the ground itself had shaken, and when the boy king came to the window and looked out he would have seen thick black smoke rising from the wound in the city and filling the sky. Jaime Lannister thinks on this, watching the march of daylight and thinking of all the things he would like to wipe away. As daylight reaches the window of King Tommen's bedroom with its terrible golden glow, he looks out at the hard ground below. It is a very long way down.

Heavy footsteps slowly approach, a familiar sound when he is in the Red Keep. Ser Robert Strong is never far, and Jaime is never left alone.

He does not turn to look. He is thinking about falling. How long it would have taken to hit the ground.

When the sun has risen high enough to shine directly into the room, Jaime sighs and closes the window. Ser Robert Strong waits for him in the doorway with his back turned, wordless as always. The enormous bulk of him blocks the passageway almost entirely from view, but still Jaime can see the Queensguard passing by, and the Queen in their midst.

He turns on her the same accusing expression he has worn for six weeks, but the Queen does not turn to look. Cersei surely knows he will be in Tommen’s rooms; he often is. The twins have little enough to say to each other now. The awful battles between them after the coronation have quieted into wary looks and sharp silence. And scars, including the one on Jaime’s face where he had caught Cersei’s heavy goblet with his chin.

But he is still expected to follow her, oh yes. If he does not, the Mountain will bring him.

When the last of her entourage has passed, Ser Robert Strong takes up his position at the back of her retinue, and Jaime trails behind, hands behind his back, expressionless. All the way to court, he follows.

For the rest of the morning he stands in the Gallery as Queen Cersei holds her audience, looking more wraith than lion. No longer Kingsguard, Ser Jaime cannot wear armor to the throne room, and bears no sword on his hip. Without them he feels diminished, smaller. He wears neither Lannister gold nor Kingsguard white, but the black of mourning, like his sister on the throne, with a deep crimson trim on his fine coat. There is more gray in his hair than before, and in his growing beard. Even without a hair out of place or an unruly fold in his finery, there is something unkempt about his appearance, and his sunken eyes and weary expression seem those of a man in the midst of a very long nightmare.

He watches the Queen in her glory, as beautiful as she has ever been. She beams at her subjects now, and offers reward to those who earn her favor. She grants extravagant requests for friends and sycophants. The others can hope for indifference, if they are lucky. For those who are not, there are consequences that grow more imaginative by the day.

The petitioners seek him out, sometimes. When the Queen claims exhaustion, or takes a private audience, visitors will approach her brother in the wings. Though the Kingslayer mantle still lingers, and he is still loathed outside of King’s Landing, the mood within the capital is shifting in a decidedly strange way.  In these times court gossip holds Jaime to be the more reasonable twin, who might prevail upon his sister the Queen to be merciful. It is whispered that where the Queen withdraws her favor Lord Lannister may still grant his support, though it be in a secret and roundabout way.

Jaime does what he can for them, offering advice and sometimes material support when their cause is dire enough, but in truth he is nearly powerless here. He may hold Casterly Rock, the Lannister fortune and their standing army, but he cannot wield any of them without her leave. They risk much more than they know by coming to him for aid, for nothing provokes Cersei’s wrath more than the suggestion of undermining her power. He has paid that price more than once already.

Much of this morning he tunes out. Faces blur together, none of them important. It would be difficult enough to follow what was happening even if he had tried to pay attention. The gallery is too far from the throne to catch the nuances of conversation, and the Queen’s advisors tend to whisper. Cersei used to complain to him of all of this. She stood at this very spot for years. It’s why she has him stand here now.

Time can pass quickly when you stop noticing. The sun climbs higher in the window, its golden light spilling onto the gathered crowd in the throne room. Haloed in the sun, they sometimes make him think of fire, and his good hand makes a fist.

Cersei shines down a smile at her court. She has never looked happier.

Today the Iron Bank has sent even more representatives with even more dire warnings of the kingdom's mounting debts and lack of repayment. Even as Regent the Queen had openly refused to repay them, citing the war effort. Now crowned and sitting the throne, she shows no intention of resuming payment. There are four Braavosi today, stiff and proud and angry. They have been made to wait their turn before the throne for days now, and they are unused to being ignored. Finally in their promised audience, they raise their arguments, cite numbers and precedent. Their outrage will get them nowhere. Cersei is charming and gracious and will give them nothing, and everyone there knows it.

Jaime suffers the conversation silently as always, his mouth a grim line. It is unwise to anger the Iron Bank, but there is no use in warning the Queen. Faceless assassins or no, she thinks herself invincible in her seat of power, with Qyburn’s monstrosities to protect her. Littlefinger held the bankers at bay for years, surely she can cow them a few more months.

The tallest banker raises his voice finally in anger, and his comments tip into insult. Something about the Lannister debts far outstripping their dwindling assets, and the things the Lannisters would not live to regret. Even the Iron Throne must pay its debts, and pay them soon.

The Queen dismisses them with a wave.

This is what kills him: in his frustration the banker’s eyes dart to the wings where the Queen’s brother stands in the shadows, and Cersei follows their gaze. Her eyes meet Jaime’s, and he can see his twin’s eyes go black as coals.

Jaime has dealt with her rages all his life. Once he had been able to contain them, when he thought to protect his fragile sister from the world. Now they have grown too large, and her weapons have grown more deadly. Now there is no way to stop her. He nearly cursed aloud when the representatives from the Iron Bank turned to him as one, wordlessly, in the sight of Queen and court and all. He would have pleaded with them not to, if he could, but anything he could do now would only make it worse.

Cersei smiles still. She asks her guards to bring payment for their guests.

A Lannister always pays his debts, true. But not always in coin.

The two Kettleblacks drench the Braavosi banker with the foul-smelling green ooze from the great jars that line the far wall. He sputters and wipes his eyes, complaining of the sting. He doesn’t understand yet how much worse it will get. He thinks this is mere humiliation, not a death sentence. The Iron Bankers assume she would not dare.

She would. The Mountain brings the torch, and the Braavosi begins to scream.

Jaime’s limbs have turned to stone.

Wildfire lights all at once, but burns slow and long. The fluid itself will feed a flame even on water. On skin, the liquid will burn for several minutes before the flames penetrate beyond it to consume the flesh. There is no mercy in it that will kill a man more quickly than fire alone; before they burn, they melt, and cook from the inside.  

The banker’s screams fill the throne room. Besides them there is not a sound. It seems to Jaime there should be more screaming. The gathered crowd should part and flee in a panic. Instead they stand in silence, staring. They had all grown used to horrors during Joffrey's reign and now Cersei's; men and women beaten, mutilated, eyes plucked from their sockets, limbs severed, lives extinguished. The burning banker is just another thing that happened today.

 _Go away inside,_ he thinks, shutting his eyes.  When he looks again the Mountain’s hands are blackened and empty and the Braavosi is a smoking husk on the ground, and the screaming is ended. A familiar smell in the air tugs at his memory. Burnt flesh and ashes. His stomach lurches.

Jaime spins on his heel and walks out of the throne room. For once, the Queensguard is too busy to stop him. There will be more to see another day. He knows this will be only the first of the burnings.

He is running out of time.

 

* * *

 

 

The remainder of the day he passes closed up in the White Sword Tower, its sole occupant. It stands empty of Kingsguard now for the first time in hundreds of years of tradition, after Tommen had disbanded their ranks at the behest of the High Sparrow. The Queen permitted him to take up residence there following his return from Riverrun, a small mercy. Of course, he has no other quarters in King’s Landing and never had. The Red Keep has no rooms for his own use, only his sister’s bed when it pleases her to have him there and his room in the barracks of the tower to creep back to afterwards, sick at heart.

Now he keeps the only key to the tower and locks himself inside.

He passes most of the time in the Round Room, where once the White Book had been maintained. This he has hidden away safely under lock and key. The room serves other purposes now. The great weirwood table has been laid over with a detailed map of Westeros, with markers and figures arranged to represent the various factions in the field. It is as his father’s war table had once looked, so far as he can remember it. Maps had never held much interest to him before, but he is finding greater use for them now.

He unrolls the message he had secreted in his sleeve, picked up from the rookery before the sun rose. _Dragons sighted again over the Northern coast. Shepherds and flocks gone missing, only scorch marks remaining. Urgently requesting aid._ He grimaces. He has seen this message before, and sent a reply not long ago. Cersei would permit no troops to venture more than a day’s ride from King’s Landing. Whatever terrorized the island holdings would have to come much closer before he could investigate. Still, he marks the island with a second black chip, representing calls for aid. There are many black chips on the map today.

“Jaime Fucking Lannister,” booms a familiar voice behind him.

He refolds the missive without turning around. “I thought I locked the door behind me, Bronn. Don’t you ever knock?”

“Picked it. You never answer anyway. A chap might think you was avoiding them.” Bronn strides into the room with his hands on his belt, looking unintimidated by his surroundings as usual. Jaime has never completely lost his awe over the pristine beauty of the white sword tower, but his hired sellsword shows no such affliction. He wonders if there is anything that Bronn might look on with awe. Perhaps the gold mines beneath Casterly Rock.

“I’ve been busy,” he offers, distracted.  

“You’re always busy,” Bronn complains. “Brooding over some map.”

“I expect you can entertain yourself,” he answers. His arms make a stern V over the great table as he leans over the Stormlands.

“I don’t want to be entertained. I want what you’ve promised me.” Bronn approached and poked his finger at the map, directly at the spot where once he had been nearly landed. “A wife and a castle, you said. A well-born wife and a goodly sized castle. Even take a goodly sized wife and a half-arsed castle. Like I had before you talked me into trotting along after you to Dorne.”

Jaime rolls his eyes. “I rescued you. You’d be bored to tears with Lollys by now.”

“Bored, but well-fed and comfortable. I told you, excitement I’ve had. Home and hearth, I haven’t. It’s been fun and all being your sword-arm, but there’s naught to do here while you stand around and think things over, and if I’ll be doing nothing I’d rather do it in a keep of my own.”

“I could give you a plot in the Stormlands if you like, except the Tyrell armies are currently standing on it.  Shall I ask them nicely to move on? Perhaps they’ve forgotten how my sweet sister burned all their heirs.” Jaime turns back to his table. “None of us will have a keep of our own, come winter. We may not even have a kingdom.”

“Right, gloomy prophecies again. You’re worse than a Red Priest.” Bronn paces around the table uneasily, with the slightly unnerved expression he wears whenever this topic arises.

The lion’s face darkens further as his eyes flit over the map. “I have better than prophecy. I have ravens.” Jaime gestures at the line of missives he has stacked along the walls, dozens and dozens of them. “All these messages unopened, going back months and months. Even when there was a Small Council, they paid little mind to messages from the Wall, didn’t bother to respond. Now there’s no one even to read them.”

“Except you.”

“Except me,” he acknowledges. “But I ignored them too, for far too long. I let them pile up unread in my sister’s Small Council, reasoning someone else would take charge of them eventually. Now it may be too late. They’re not just from the Wall -- holdfasts all across the north, port cities all along the sea, and increasingly frantic reports from Dragonstone, all pleading for aid, while King’s Landing closes its gates and waits.”

“Well, why not? Let it sort itself all out then,” Bronn advises with a shrug.

“We could if they were simply marching on each other, but before long they’ll be marching on us.” Jaime maneuvers a few markers he has placed across the map. “The Iron Islanders are raising a fleet and raiding all along the coast to the East. Doing a damned better job of it than the last time, and we’ve no fleet of our own to counter. The Starks have crushed the Boltons and taken back Winterfell and are raising an army in the North, along with the knights of the Vale to the West. The Freys, one of our few allies remaining, foul as they are, are being systematically wiped out by gods know who. Possibly the Brotherhood without Banners, who also want us dead. The Tyrells hold the Stormlands and scream for our blood to our South, even more Martells screaming for our blood even further South, and Daenerys Targaryen—“

Bronn scoffs. “That’s just a rumor.”

“A remarkably consistent and detailed one.” Jaime straightens and rubs his eyes blearily, leaving several markers clustered out at sea. “An armada of ships, a slave army, Dothraki horsemen, and dragons. Three dragons.”

Bronn looks skeptical. “You believe that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I’ve got a duck that shits golden eggs, and a magic codpiece. Want to buy them?”

Jaime ignores the former sellsword and gestures to another cluster of pieces, the largest by far, scattered across the North. “And then this, whatever it is. An army of Ice. Monsters from storybooks. I believe that even less than the dragons, but there is **something** out there driving the Wildlings south all along the Wall, something the Northmen are dedicating sizeable and sustained forces to defend against. The Night’s Watch claims to have fought off White Walkers. They tried to tell the Small Council years ago, but they didn’t listen.”

Bronn walk around to the Wall, a great slash across the Northern hemisphere. “All that whatever-it-is, if it even exists… They’re on the other side of the Wall, right?”

“The North doesn’t seem to find that as comforting as they once did.” The lion leaves the map, finally, and falls into an ornate commander’s chair. He looks openly weary now. “If you want, Bronn, I can give you a bag of gold and passage on a ship. Assuming you get past the Iron Islanders, you should sail for the Free Cities and buy your land there. Qarth, Essos, Bravos. The Summer Isles, even.  But get the hell out of Westeros if you’re looking for a quiet life. Nowhere on this continent will be peaceful before long.”

Bronn takes this advice glumly, casually flicking over on their sides the pieces that had been so carefully arranged on Jaime’s map. “I might do, I might do. But what are you going to do? You’re the one with the gold, why aren’t you sailing off into the sunset?”

A familiar expression, half-smile and half grimace, settles on the lion lord’s face. “My place is here, of course. With my queen.”

“What about your friend, the lady knight?”

Jaime does not seem entirely surprised at the sudden change of subject. Perhaps she has already been on his mind. “Brienne of Tarth? She’ll not sail away from a battle, and there will be many to choose from before long.”

Bronn smirks. “I meant, where are she and Podrick on your map? With the Starks, so, Winterfell?”

“Presumably. As close to a safe place as there is right now, so long as the Wall holds.” Jaime raises his eyebrows at his companion. “Not, let me emphasize, a safe place for anyone but Northerners and their sworn swords.”

“They don’t know me. If they could use a few swords…”

“Looking to betray me?” He puts it with fairly good humor.

Bronn shrugs cheerfully. “I’m looking for a winning team. Nothing personal. And anyway, it didn’t seem to bother you much, finding Lady Brienne on the Stark side. Might be I take a wander up north and pay her a visit. Could be I could get what I was promised from another source.”

“No one there is going to pay my debts, Bronn. And anyway, the Lady Brienne has no castles to give you.”

“Sure she does. She has a great big one on that lovely old island of hers, soon as her father kicks it. She’s an heiress, I happen to know. I marry the big girl, I get me a nicer castle than old Lollys could ever have dreamed of.”

“You? Marry Brienne?” Jaime poises for a moment between bursting out laughing and turning angry, and just manages to remain unaffected. “Don’t be ludicrous.”

“And why not? She’s unwed, last of her name, and young enough still to pop out a few pups. Sooner or later they’ll be calling on her to do her duty, sworn sword or not. I can help with that.”

“How noble of you,” Jaime says dryly. “Oh wait, I meant the opposite of that.”

“Ahh, you lot are all tied up in names and family trees. So what if I’m not high-born, big girl could do a lot worse. They’re running out of eligible noblemen with this war, if you haven’t noticed. She holds out much longer, she’ll wind up matched to some elderly chap with two teeth and fewer wits. Instead she could have me.” Bronn gestures grandly. “A decent bloke who’ll treat her kindly. Not much more a woman like that can ask for.”

“A woman like what?” Less aloof now, an edge of warning creeps into Jaime’s voice.

“You know what I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I bet she’d make a good wife. Loyal and all that. And I’ll bet she’s a hellcat in the sack, all those fighting muscles? Wouldn’t look her in the face much, but she’s got those long legs…”

Jaime stands up abruptly, his chair shooting out behind him. Bronn raises his hands in a gesture of surrender just as quickly. He is laughing.

“Oy, cool down, Lord Murderface. Just getting a little rise out of you.” Bronn edges back a few steps. “Meant no dishonor to your lady friend.”

It takes a few long moments longer than that for the heat to ease out of his glare, but the storm passes. As Jaime settles back slowly into his chair Bronn openly relaxes. Jaime might pose little threat to him, unarmed and one-handed, but he's still capable of putting the fear of the gods into a man when he's angry enough. Bronn maintains a careful distance.

“Wasn’t sure you had any steel in you anymore, the way you mope around these days.”

“You try my patience, Bronn.” He sighs. “Then you were joking with this talk of marriage, I hope? You should know the Lady does not wish to marry.”

Bronn raises his eyebrows. “How do you know? Have you asked her?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jaime cannot keep a slightly forlorn edge from his voice. “She isn’t the type.”

Bronn laughs again and shakes his head. “You’re a great idiot, you know that?”

“You press your luck too hard, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. I think you’d best be on your way.”

Bronn acquiesces, with one demand before he strolls out the way he came. “Better prepare that bag of gold, Lannister. Soon. If everything you say is true, I’d like to make sure I’m still alive to enjoy it.”

The tower would surely be much quieter without Bronn of the Blackwater around, but that would not last. Jaime has another visitor, one who had been waiting patiently for some time.

“He’s right, you know.” The Spider steps from the shadows, only moments after the Tower door closes below them. “The time grows short.” There are no corners in the Round Room to hide in, but he had hidden himself somehow. Only an unfortunate and entirely purposeful cough had alerted Jaime to his presence minutes ago.

“Lord Varys.” The former Lord Commander had guessed his identity already. He had not yet found all of the secret passageways in the White Sword Tower, but he knew a few and expected there were more. Lord Varys, the former Master of Whispers, would know every last one of them. “I was rather hoping you were dead.” 

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“I don’t believe you’ve ever called on me before, in all the years we have lived at King’s Landing together. I’m wounded,” Jaime claims flatly.

“You have never interested me before.” Varys folds his hands beneath the long sleeves of his silken robe and paces around the table, looking over the placement of pieces on the map.

“Why not? I’m fascinating.”

“Tools don’t interest me. You’ve been a sword in someone else’s hands your entire life. Your sister’s, your father’s. The Kingsguard’s. You’d still be a mindless weapon to this day, if you hadn’t gotten yourself broken. Now I’m not sure what you are.”

Jaime’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Remind me why I shouldn’t murder you?”

Varys ignores the threat and gestures to the map. “It’s not bad. A few inaccuracies, but all of the pieces are there. That’s far more than anyone else in the Red Keep has put together in all this time. May I?”

Jaime permits it, and the Spider rearranges the location of the Knights of the Vale, some to reinforce Winterfell and others much closer to King’s Landing than before. “This sudden interest in the state of the realm – do you mean to talk some sense into our beloved queen? Or to take more… direct action?”

Lord Lannister eyes him warily. “Someone here should be prepared for what’s coming. If nothing else, at least I will be ready to persuade my sister to take action, when needs be.”

“You could do a lot more than persuade her. In fact, there is no one in better position to depose the Mad Queen than you are.”

The thought floats in the air a moment. It is not the first time it has been had in this room, though never voiced until now.

“You speak treason, Spider,” Jaime cautions him, though he doesn’t sound particularly outraged. “By all rights you could find yourself in the black cells for such suggestions. The Queen has ears everywhere, and she has sent many to her dungeons for far less.”

“The warning is appreciated.” Varys looks unconcerned. He sits on the edge of the map table, planting himself in the sea just beyond Daenerys’s forces. “You were never a Cyvasse player, as I recall. That was your brother’s game. A shame, really, that you never learned to play it. Tyrion is the cleverer, and thinks farther ahead, but I believe you might be bolder, and better able to capitalize on your opponent’s weaknesses. You could have learned much from each other.” The eunuch adjusts the placement of Daenerys’s forces as he speaks, nudging them closer to Dragonstone. “Cersei would manage a clever turn here and there, perhaps, but she’d take much too long to realize she has lost. And then upend the table rather than concede.” 

“Tyrion did try to teach us. We weren’t interested; or rather, my sister was not, and I agreed.”

“It’s true that we’ve not had very much to say to each other. Me being not a Lannister, and therefore unimportant, in your eyes. You being… not a player.”

“Of Cyvasse?”

“Of the only game that matters. The game of thrones.”

Jaime laughs. “Is this where you call me disappointing? Funny, ever since my lord father died there’s been no shortage of men reminding me of that. It’s almost like he never left. Next you’ll be after me to marry.”

Varys chuckles at that, and leans further into the light. “The question remains. You can see the disaster looming, this map tells me that. You have the power to dethrone Cersei. You have more friends and more support, and the Lannister armies follow you and not her. Why do you hesitate?”

Jaime rubs at the stubble on his chin, shielding his troubled expression. This is not a topic he particularly wishes to discuss. After a pause, he removes his hand and replies lightly. “Four monarchs in under a year seems a little excessive, don’t you think? Even for the Iron Throne, that’s a lot of arses for one chair.”

“And if you deposed your sister, who would rule?” Varys raises an eyebrow. “That is the catch, isn’t it? No Baratheons left, Tywin dead, and with that unfortunate incident with the Sept wiping out Lord Kevan and Lancel, you've nearly run out of Lannisters. With Cersei gone and enemies at your gates, the only one left to take the Iron Throne is you."

“Funny, isn’t it?” Jaime forces a laugh, but there is no humor in it. “The Kingslayer becoming King. The kingdom would fall apart from sheer outrage. It’s almost worth doing out of pure spite.”

“But you don’t want it.”

“I never did. It’s ludicrous, anyway. The next poor bastard to sit that chair will have only a matter of days before someone arrives to depose them.”

“Exactly.” Varys folds his hands in front of himself placidly. “So you must choose that poor bastard very carefully. That could be a very eventful few days for the people of King’s Landing.”

“You seem quite certain that I will eliminate my sweet sister. Far more certain than I.”

“I doubt that. I’m fairly sure you’ve already decided, and only need to get up the will to do it.”

Jaime guards his reactions, conceding nothing. “Hypothetically speaking, if I should wish to do so, it would take more than will. You’ve seen Ser Strong. You must know there are more of him now down in the black cells. The Queensguard is filling up with faceless knights in black armor who cannot be reasoned with or purchased. And I am watched by at least one of them every hour of the day, except here in the tower. I am never alone with Cersei, and she no longer trusts me.”

“I’m sure you could find a way, if you were determined enough.”

“You seem unsurprised by all of this, Lord Varys. Do you still have little birds reporting to you? Did you ever even leave King’s Landing at all? Or…”

“Or maybe you are all just that predictable,” Varys completed. “I’ve observed this family for many long years, and it didn’t take many to figure you out. Not many more to learn how to manipulate. Cersei has her father’s lust for power but less of his cunning, and none of his judgement. I knew it was only a matter of time before she destroyed your house – and make no mistake, that is exactly what she has done – if anything, she worked faster than I would have guessed. I have many plans, my lord, and so far all of them have panned out exactly as expected. The only surprise here, to be quite honest, is you.”

The eunuch continues, shaking his head. “You’ve been undermining your sister for some time now. I couldn’t figure it out. You’ve always been the most predictable of them all. Running from responsibility into your sister’s arms at every opportunity, seemingly caring for nothing else. But ever since you returned to King’s Landing, there has been something different about you. You sent a knight and a squire you outfitted personally to protect Sansa Stark, who Cersei wanted dead. You approached me to free Tyrion from the Black Cells – I would have done it anyway, mind you, but the fact remains – in defiance of the crown, your father, and Cersei, and after he was justly sentenced to death for killing our good king Joffrey, not incidentally Cersei’s son, and your… nephew.” Varys watches Jaime’s expression curiously as he ticks the strange behavior off on his fingers. “You even went out of your way to regain Myrcella from Dorne and to recapture the Riverlands at a minimum of bloodshed, almost diplomatically. It made me wonder if losing your sword hand had lost you your nerve. But it wasn’t quite that, was it?”

Jaime doesn’t bother to answer him. Varys goes on, beginning to pace.

“I pride myself on determining exactly how every person will react to any given situation. It’s my own little expertise, if you’ll forgive my arrogance. I had my own predictions about what your time in captivity and your unfortunate maiming would do to your temperament. I expected self-pity, a redoubling of dedication to your twin, perhaps a determination to learn to fight left-handed, enough to keep you busy and out of the way while the great wheels of fate turned for the rest of us.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” Jaime says dryly.

Varys ignores him. “But real change, I anticipated little. Certainly nothing like what I’ve actually observed since then. You’ve kept up the show quite well, and our lovely Queen knows no different. But you have been **plotting** , haven’t you? I see you contacting Gold Cloaks around the city, sending ravens to your army. A great many men stand prepared to take action at your command. Perhaps you are Tywin’s son after all.”

Jaime is unsure whether to take this as a compliment. “You doubted it?”

“You would be surprised.” Varys doesn’t elaborate. “I must confess that I have been caught off guard, which is an unpleasant experience for me. It could only mean there was some other factor that I had not accounted for, in all my long calculations. An unknown. I do not like unknowns, my lord.”

“Your plans have some holes in them, then. Perhaps you are not so in control as you thought.” Though he sounds smug, Jaime looks uneasy at the turns of this conversation. The Spider knows much more than he would like, and clearly exile has not cleared King’s Landing of the Spider’s many webs.

“It is a poor schemer who cannot adjust their plans,” Varys tells him pleasantly. “This is a happy surprise, actually. It means instead of gambling on a battle for the Capital over a bed of wildfire, **you** could secure it for us, instead.” The eunuch waves a hand over the many markers scattered across Jaime’s map. “You see the factions gathering, but you don’t know how many of them have already allied against you. When my friends arrive, they will come to you from all directions but under one banner: Targaryen. The Dragon Queen will not hesitate to incinerate King’s Landing, but surely she would find it far more satisfying to take the city intact from her father’s killer. More poetic.”

 “Your plan is that I crown myself King?” Jaime says in bewilderment. "Have you gone mad?”

 “Only briefly. Long enough to ensure the safety of King’s Landing.” Varys does not specify which question he is answering.

“You would have me take the throne and yield it to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“I would.”

“Never mind that she would take my head in the process.”

“Don’t be so sure. The Queen’s Hand argues quite passionately to let you live. And Tyrion can be quite persuasive.” Varys paused to watch Jaime blink in surprise. “Yes, your brother, too, rides with the Dragon Queen. He has been with her all the way from the Free Cities, and quite prepared to help her take King’s Landing.”

Jaime takes a moment to consider this, his brow furrowed. “How in the world… but I shouldn’t be surprised.” He cannot help but sound bitter. “My little brother could talk his way into anything and out of it again. I only wonder if he means to murder us all personally, the way he did our father.”

“I believe that depends,” Varys says. “I spoke with him mere days ago. He was quite interested to know what you are up to here, whether you are fully under Cersei’s thumb or only biding your time. Your sister he would gladly slay, that much is true. You, well… he was quite hopeful that the wildfire explosion, and Tommen’s death, would be the final blow to your liaison. Surely you could not forgive her for what she has done and go on as before. What should I tell him, my lord? Are you still steadfast at your sister’s side, and in her bed?”

Jaime grips the arm of his ornate chair with his good hand. “Tyrion can ask me himself. I am not going to explain myself to you.”

“That explains enough. Lord Tyrion will be disappointed.”

“Lord Tyrion has been disappointed on that count for a long time. And my brother has more cause to be disappointed in me than that, if he only knew.”

Varys lets this mysterious comment pass. “Be that as it may. You would not necessarily have to assassinate the Queen, my lord. There are other ways to remove her – expel her from the castle, send her to the Black Cells. Take the Iron Throne and open the gates of the city – let the smallfolk flee and the Dragon Queen come in peacefully. With some negotiations, with my aid and the aid of your brother, both you and your sister may be escorted to Casterly Rock, where you would be permitted to live out your days peacefully. A better result you will not find, I assure you.”

Varys gestures meaningfully at Jaime’s map, at the many forces gathered and baying for Lannister blood. Then he folds his hands and waits, his argument made.

Jaime sits heavily in the Lord Commander’s chair, thinking all of it over. After a long pause, he looks back at Varys to ask the most important question of all. “Is she mad?”

Varys smiles. “Daenerys? No more than you or I, for what that’s worth.”

“I’m quite serious.”

“So am I. She is a Targaryen, with all that involves. She is impetuous, passionate, vain. Convinced of the rightness of her actions. But no, she is not mad.”

“Yet,” Jaime says darkly. “Neither was Aerys, not plainly, until he was five-and-forty. She’s his daughter, his blood flows in her veins. You want to give a madman’s daughter the whole of Westeros, along with more wildfire to terrorize the kingdom. As if that’s not bad enough, this mad Targaryen has dragons. What she could do with them would make the Mad King’s rages look like a mild tantrum by comparison.”

“She will not go mad. She will be a good Queen, a fair Queen. You must have heard by now the tales of her actions in the free cities, ending slavery, liberating Slaver’s Bay? She is beloved by her subjects, has earned the loyalty of everyone she meets.”

“Those she hasn’t burned, that is.”

Varys draws himself up, appearing exasperated if not outright angry. “What other options are there? Is the Kingdom better off with Cersei on the throne?”

“You suggest we should trade one mad queen for another?” Jaime grins terribly. “Yes, Cersei will bring us to ruin, I can see that as clearly as anyone. But I fail to see how we are better off with Targaryens. ‘Every time a Targaryen is born’, we flip a coin and the world holds its breath. What kind of future is that? Let’s say your Dragon Queen is saner than Aerys at least – what of her children? Her children’s children? You would have us flip a coin every thirty years and hope for the best? If you are playing the long game, that’s a poor move.”

“And you labor under the illusion that you can control your sister, restrain her worse impulses. Tell me, Lord Jaime, in all your life, when has that ever been true?” Varys speaks with more confidence now. “You couldn’t stop her from torturing Tyrion all those years. Surely you must have noticed what happened to any of her little friends who got too close to you. The little girl who fell down a well, did you never suspect your sister’s hands had pushed her? Joffrey was not the only one who enjoyed torturing his subjects – where do you think he got it from? Today you could not stop her burning a man in open court. What in the world do you suppose Daenerys Targaryen could do that would be more destructively foolish than that? What do you imagine the Iron Bank of Bravos will do in response?”

Jaime tries his best to sound flippant. “Charge a fee, I imagine.”

“Their fees are paid in blood. They will fund your enemies and send assassins to the Red Keep.”

He knows it. “All right, Lord Varys, I have heard your proposal. Now hear mine. I am not playing at your games and my plans are my own. You are no longer Master of Whispers and even speaking to you is treason. Leave this city and do not come back.”

Varys bows. “Let me leave you then, with a final thought. I lost my place at the Small Council when I freed Tyrion from the black cells – at your request, let me remind you. I said nothing to anyone of that, not even to save my own skin. I did not protest my innocence when I was exiled from the Red Keep, as I could easily have done. Surely I could not possibly have known what Tyrion would do with his freedom when I showed him the secret byways of the castle, that he would climb the Tower of the Hand and slay your lord father.

“Would you like to hear my confession, Lord Jaime? Here it is: I did know. Tyrion did exactly as I predicted, just as he always has. All of these things have come about precisely as I have planned them, and my plans are far from over.”

“Why then?” Jaime furrows his brow and leans forward. “Why would you wish our father dead, after he kept you so many years in his service?”

“I doubt you could understand. You believe this is how your house has always been. Ruthless. Merciless. Cruel. It was not always so, my lord. The Lannisters were always powerful and ambitious, but they were never monstrous until Lord Tywin took control.”

“You, Lord Jaime, may fancy yourself a monster in your darkest moments, but truly you have many hundreds more murders to catch up to Tywin’s level.  Your lord father’s atrocities will take generations to repair. Entire houses wiped from the land for spite. The drowned Reynes of Castamere. The Mountain’s rampages through the countryside. The dead Dornish queen and her babes. The violation of guest right, one of our most sacred customs, as a shortcut to eliminating a troublesome enemy. How much of the chaos out there now was seeded years ago by his actions?” For the first time, the eunuch speaks passionately. For whatever reason, this point in particular he believes most strongly. “Lord Tywin needed to die. I think deep down you know it. You mourned him little enough when he died. I cannot see that you listened to him so much when he lived. You must have been repressing your disapproval of his methods for a good long time. I would guess since Rhaegar’s children were slaughtered, at the very least.”

Jaime interrupts sharply, frowning. “It is not my place to judge the head of my house, approving or otherwise.”

“And yet you have rejected his every attempt to install you in a position of power, fought every chance to follow in his footsteps. You gave away his last gift to you seemingly without a thought, to be carried by your sworn enemies. Your loyalty to your house has its limits, it seems. That convinces me that you might be persuaded to take the greater good into account, in the end. Deposing your sister to protect the kingdom – that, Lord Tywin would never have done. But you may yet be a better man than your father.” Varys leans in conspiratorially, "Do you know what gave away your true nature?"

Jaime swallows, trying to master his expression, "No. Whatever could that be, Lord Varys?"

 “The sword, Ser Jaime. How long did you dream of a Valyrian sword of your own, a sword fit for a hero? As a boy it was all you would speak of. As a young man it was the only thing you ever asked Tywin for, and you asked endlessly. Your lord father himself coveted such a sword his entire life. When the two blades were forged from Ned Stark’s greatsword, he said they would be the glory of your house." Varys paused, a small smile on his face. "And you gave yours right back to the Starks.”

Jaime holds up his golden hand. “I couldn’t very well wield it myself, could I? I gave it to someone who could.”

“You did. To Brienne of Tarth.” Varys smiles very large now, his eyes sparkling. “That’s the unknown. The variable I never predicted. A rebellious daughter of a minor house playing at being a knight, a woman you outfitted in Lannister armor and presented with a Valyrian steel sword. Were you lovers? Or is it worse than that, and you fell in love with the sworn sword of your enemies? My little birds tell me very amusing tales about a bear and a maiden not-so-fair. And more recently of a lady knight who strode into the Lannister army camp bold as you please and strode right back out again, and passed unmolested through a siege line with the blessing of the Lord Commander?”

The two men look at each other in silence.

Varys breaks first, his smile undeterred by Ser Jaime’s malignant glare. “You have been careless, Lord Lannister. Both of you have. If I hear such tales, you can be certain the Queen has, or soon will. And how will you get out from under her thumb once she captures your friend and bleeds her to hold you to account?”

“Is that a threat, Spider?” Jaime’s tone drops menacingly. “Might you be tempted to whisper into my sister’s ear, or have one of your little birds do it for you?”

“Not I, my lord.” The Spider looks mildly affronted at the accusation. “Not when you and I could be friends instead. But you have other enemies who might, or even friends who know no better.”

“The Queen’s reach ends at King’s Landing. Beyond that the Lannister forces are mine, and all the Knights of the Vale and the armies of the North stand between here and Winterfell. If Cersei should get the wrong idea about the Maid of Tarth, there is little she can do about it.”

“You must not have been listening very closely at court lately.” Varys lowers his voice. “Dragons roosting on Tarth as their mother sails to Westeros. Carrying off livestock and grown men for their food. You’ve been reading the ravens’ messages, you must have seen the calls for aid. Did you think the Evenstar would not act? Lord Selwyn is sailing to King’s Landing as we speak, to seek audience with the Queen.”

All the color drains from Lord Lannister’s face. “That cannot be. I wrote him… I explained—“

“That there was no aid to give. He is not taking your word for it, I’m afraid. In a fortnight he will arrive. And when the Evenstar comes to the court of the mad Queen, his daughter will surely ride for the capital.”

Jaime’s eyes dart down to the map. Winterfell to King’s Landing was a journey of weeks when undertaken by a procession of many men needing to camp and eat; a lone knight riding the King’s Road at top speed would be faster. Lord Selwyn could send a raven now and see his daughter out of the North before the real snows fell. If the Evenstar had sent for her before he set sail, Brienne could already be on her way.

 “You are running out of time,” Varys cautions him, unknowingly echoing Jaime’s own thoughts. “Your sister grows bolder by the day, and the burnings have only begun. If you don’t want to watch your Lady Brienne burn to death, you will need my help.”

Jaime shudders inwardly, briefly tempted. An ally would be a relief to him at this point. But he has never trusted Varys, nor liked him even a little, and in the end he has never been a man to take counsel, however badly needed.

Reaching over the table, he plucks a figure from King’s Landing while keeping his gaze level with the former master of whispers. “For the information, Spider, I thank you. Do say hello to my brother for me, when you see him. And remember, you are still a traitor to the crown. If ever I see you anywhere in King’s Landing again, I will peel the flesh from your bones personally.”

“Why, my lord, I would almost think you didn’t find me trustworthy.” The eunuch smiles placidly.

“I will decide for myself what to do. I don’t want to play your games.” He studies the figure he has removed from the board, the figure of a general. His hand makes a fist around it. He is growing very tired of half-truths and secrets.

“Want has nothing to do with it. You may not want the Iron Throne, but you are a player now whether you like it or not. You are head of your house and next in line to be King of Westeros. You know what happens to spare Kings these days. Remember Ned Stark. He didn’t want to play the game either, but he ended up just as dead as the Five Kings.”

“As dead as Joffrey, Marcella, and Tommen, you mean?” Jaime cracks the figure between his fingers, breaking it in half. “I remember.”

“Good. Play carefully, Kingslayer. Don’t hesitate too long, or you may not get a move.”

With that, Varys withdraws into the shadows of a secret passage, closing the passage behind him, leaving not the slightest crack to show it had ever been there.

Jaime lets him go; he has much to consider.

 

 


End file.
